


Stitches

by BrandyFromTheBottle



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Abuse, Angst, Bullying, Consensual Underage Sex, Dissociation, Extortion, Frottage, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Self-Harm, Self-Mutilation, Sibling Incest, Teen Stans, Trauma, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, ford fucks someone up with science
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-26
Updated: 2017-11-26
Packaged: 2019-02-06 22:08:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12827127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrandyFromTheBottle/pseuds/BrandyFromTheBottle
Summary: Stan starts to run with Crampelter's gang, becoming mean and cruel. Something is wrong.(Crampelter blackmails Stan, Ford gets suspicious.)





	1. A Smile, Sideways

**Author's Note:**

> Original idea by Cheeziswin! A totally awesome person; fic wouldn't be possible without that genius. <3  
> And thanks to data_point for providing some great ideas!
> 
> My beta made me break this into multiple chapters.
> 
> Inspired by a Discord chat.

Stanley has been irritable, snapping at Stanford for every little transgression, from chewing his pens too noisily to questioning Stanley's late-night arrival through the second story window. It grates on Stanford, but he understands that his brother must be nervous for their final year of high school. Stanford is as well. However, Stanford cannot excuse the bruises and split lips and the smell of cigarettes and booze; the way Stanley's shirts and jeans are covered in mud and grass stains.

Stanley crawls in through the window and this time Stanford is waiting for him.

“Stan.” His voice is quiet in the soft, darkness. Stan freezes and then drops his shoulders into a defensive curl, shoves his hands in his pockets. It is too dark to see, but Stanford can hear the scowl in his voice.

“Whatcha doin up, Sixer? Yer usually conked out ta nerdland by now.” Stan’s voice is raspy, scratchy and hoarse. No doubt due to the abrasive nature of cigarette smoke. Stanford breathes deeply; yes, Stan has been smoking and drinking. He is favoring his right leg; he has most likely been brawling as well.

“Stanley, this behavior has to stop.” Stanford is calm but firm, level headed. Stan curls further, radiating repressed fury, his voice muffled between clenched teeth.

“Dunno watcha mean, Ford. Just hanging with some friends. Ya know what those are, dontcha?” Stanford feels his jaw clench. It refuses to relax even though he knows Stan is trying to distract him, redirect him, mislead him. Stan is doing a good job of it, but Stanford is an intellectual. He is better than that.

“Your ‘friends’ seem like degenerates. Your time is better spent elsewhere.” He says, refusing to answer the inciting question though he desperately wants to bite back. Instead, he clenches each of his six fingered hands on his thighs, letting the bite of his nails ground him, smooth his hackles. Stan laughs, the sound is ugly, scraping from a throat raw from hedonism.

“It’s called partying, Stanford. It's what normal people do.” And Stan must be furious to answer with Ford's full name like an insult.

“And who,” Ford grits out, his own temper rising, slow and thick and clinging, “might these normal people be?” Ford doesn't really want an answer. The answer is obvious: everyone is normal compared to him. His six fingers, his intelligence, his attraction to…his libido is irrelevant right now.

Stan suddenly straightens, rolls his shoulders back and his posture loosens. He walks to where Ford is sitting at his desk, his chair turned toward the window. Stanford can recognize that swagger, the confident, arrogant twist of his smirk. Stanford recognizes these actions; Stan employs them on pretty girls and bullies alike. The arousing confidence; the frustrating arrogance. Ford’s face drops into a defensive scowl.

“Well, someone you know, Fordsy. Someone who sees the value in the sweatier, dumber version of you.” Stan’s voice is low and almost seductive, a purr that sounds intimate with the hoarse scratch of his throat. Ford takes a distant, numb moment to observe the inflammatory actions Stan is employing to unsettle Ford. Then he sees red as something cold and furious strangles his chest.

His fist flies and it is only the shock of his uncharacteristic violence that allows him the satisfying and painful connection with Stan’s cheek. Ford barely has the chance to register the stupidity of aiming for the boniest part of the human body with unpadded knuckles before a furious Stan grabs him by the loose collar of his sleep shirt and slams them both to the ground. Ford’s head snaps against the hard floor with a sound that he can’t hear over the vibrating pain in his skull as the fluid surrounding his brain translates the ripples of impact to the soft muscle and grey matter that snaps forward and then back on its stem.

He doesn’t see stars, but black spots bloom like inverted fireworks and as they fade he can hear Stan snarling down at him, body heavy where it rests on his stomach, making each breath shallow and wheezing.

“--so do yourself a favor, Stanford, and stay the fuck away from me.” And Ford feels too much--too much anger, too much hate, too much betrayal--grief--shock. He can't breathe around his emotions; he can’t breathe around the thing squeezing his heart; he can’t breathe under Stan’s bulk. When he says nothing, just gasps, Stan makes a noise of disgust and his face twists into cruel distaste. He heaves himself off of Ford and leaves the room. Ford doesn’t move, just tries to breathe and fight the heat behind his eyes and the spasms of the muscles around his mouth. He hears the creaking, ancient shower rattle to life and pulls himself up to sit. He straightens his shirt and carefully stands. He wonders, briefly, if his parents will hear that same, distinctive rattle and know that Stan has broken curfew. But Filbrick is downstairs, counting inventory and profit and grumbling about finances while Mom acts the psychic she isn’t. Ford walks to the bunk bed and the small ladder has never felt longer, taller, farther. He feels all of his emotions drop away into a deepness that pulls the rest of him with it. The gravity of the Earth has shifted and Ford fights the resistance with each pull on each rung up the ladder until he can settle under the thin blanket he had complained was too hot in the thick, humid heat of a Jersey summer. Now, it is too little; he is numb as if frozen and no amount of tucking and swaddling can keep enough heat under the blanket to warm him.

Stan eventually emerges from the shower, smelling like cheap soap. He is quiet in a show of considerate deference at odds with his previous vitriol. He quietly puts himself to bed with a few grunts of strain that a part of Ford’s numbed mind drinks like a parched man in a desert.

Stan is distant after that, though Ford cannot tell if that’s due to Stan’s newfound friends or Ford’s own frosty politeness. He no longer cares if Stan comes home late with scrapes and bruises and stinks of depravity. If he hears Stan grumble about his aches or pains, Ford cannot help the quick, cutting quip:

“Well, Stanley, if you didn’t engage in such degenerate acts you wouldn’t feel like that, would you?” And Stan gets a kind of quiet that makes the core of Ford tense in primordial terror. But Stan, in uncharacteristic restraint, simply leaves. Sometimes, that means he climbs out of the window and doesn’t return until morning to slip back into his bed, acting as if he has been there all night so Mom never asks where he’s been.

When school starts again, Stan steals Ford’s homework, no doubt to copy so that he can continue his newfound delinquency with convenient ease. Stan has the decency to return the papers before they are due, but they are crumpled and filthy. Ford feels a grimy sense of accomplice knowing that others--unknowable, flagitious others will profit from his labor. Stan, at least, seems a little guilty about the theft, but he is never repentant, so it is immaterial.

It is mid semester--there are essays due and studying to be done when Stan stumbles early through the window and marches past Ford without a glance. He hears the rattle of pipes and does not waste a moment of thought for whatever sin Stan is washing away. Then he hears an aborted shout, clanging and something falls in the bathroom loudly enough to reach him. Ford doesn't truly want to see what mess Stan has made, but if he doesn't he might have to clean it up later.

He walks swiftly to the bathroom and knocks respectfully.

“Stanley, what did you do?” His voice is frosty and clipped; he has an exam for literature tomorrow morning and an essay he needs to edit for history. Stan curses again but the door stays closed. “Stanley, I don’t have time for this!” Ford snaps and waits another moment before he begins to bang against the door with the abandon reserved solely for his brother. Stan cusses and curses but, finally, unlocks the door.

“Don’ s’y a w’rd.” Stan slurs and Ford is sure he is drunk and Ford really wishes his brother would get his act together, at least enough to allow Ford some peace. He is ready to say this but it all dies like a snuffed candle: hot and then nothing.

Stan’s hand is clasped over his mouth, trying to staunch the flow of blood that trickles through the cracks of his fingers and down, staining his white undershirt with bright, red spots.

“Stanley, oh my God.” Ford's voice is soft, at odds with the urgent rush of his feet, hands rising to assess the damage even as Stan flinches back.

“‘S f’ne.” Ford can barely understand him through the muffle of his hand.

“Stanley, let me see.” Ford reaches up again and Stan can't retreat, can't hide, and so he tenses but lets Ford grab his wrists and pull his hands away, exposing his face.

There is a slash of gaping flesh from under Stan’s eye, over his lip to his chin. The skin has parted like the skin of a sausage; it is obscene in its banality. Stan bleeds freely, unsure what to do now that he has been caught.

Stanford screams for his Mom, because Stan is bleeding and open, and Ford can see a hint of teeth peeking between the perpendicular intersection of the wound and lips. Stan freaks out when Ford throws up on the floor.

Stan gets five stitches and an additional three butterfly stitches. He’s given a saline solution to clean the wound and sent home with a lengthy lecture from the doctor and Mom.

“Honestly, Stanley, what were ya thinking? If ya wanted ta use the straight razor ya shoulda asked ya fatha’. Honestly, bubbala! Ya scared me half ta death! Ya fatha’, too!” Mom goes on as Stan cradles his face in self-conscious defensiveness. Ford notes that Filbrick is as unruffled as ever, only marginally annoyed to be driving at the late hour.

Mom is convinced and Filbrick doesn’t care, but anyone with half a brain would know that Stan isn’t actually stupid or clumsy enough to put a gash in his own face. So, Ford waits until the hour is late and both of his parents are occupied and Stan crawls in through the window. Ford is at his desk, rolling a pencil between his fingers. Stan is trying not to grumble, Ford imagines it must be uncomfortable to talk at all with the stitches. Ford can see Stan rubbing at his face and, yes, Stan has been picking at his stitches enough to hinder the healing process and it is starting to annoy Ford.

“If you keep doing that it’ll scar.” Ford’s voice is far too mild for the virulent emotions flitting through his firing synapses. He hears Stan stumble and curse in surprise, sees the silhouette displaced and then reappear.

“Good.” And Stan is still slurring a bit, the hard consonant of the ‘d’ softening into a shushing noise.

“Your machismo is pointless,” Ford drawls and stands, walking carefully to the space next to the window where Stan is still rubbing at his face. By the light of the flickering street lamp Ford can see the tense set of Stan’s eyes, the twist of his unstitched mouth beside the broad palm covering the injury. In a moment of false bravado--Ford is well aware that Stan can be volatile in these moments--he reaches up and gently tries to pull Stan’s hand away. Stan resists a moment before letting Ford’s fingers fully circle his wrist and reveal the swollen wound. “Don’t waste yer nerd brain on it.” Stan is looking away, turning his head so that the stitches are harder to see. Ford releases the wrist in his hand and instead places light fingers to Stan’s chin, turning his jaw. He can feel the twitch of the muscles clench in resistance. Stan is uncomfortable with Ford’s scrutiny.

“Stanley,” Ford pitches his voice low, intimate in the soft shadows. “Why did you do this?” Ford runs a careful thumb just below the wound’s terminus at Stan’s chin. He feels Stan repress a shudder, from pain or other discomfort, Ford doesn’t know. Then Stan smacks his hand away.

 

“Fuck off, Sixer. I told ya, it was an accident!” Ford stumbles back, unprepared for Stan’s wrath, though he should have been. “And I’ll do what I want with my own damn face!” Stan is nearly shouting, rubbing at his stitches furiously and Ford wants to quiet him but knows that it is pointless. Stan deflates into his defensive curl, voice becoming ugly. “Ya should be happy, Sixer. People’ll be so distracted by my face they won’t even see yer hands.” And Stan shoves past him, shoulder knocking Ford roughly to the side. Ford readjusts his glasses where they have fallen askew, pensive as he watches Stan limp to the bathroom. Ford feels the eerie teasing of suspicion solidify in his gut as dread. His poor brother is a fool if he thinks he can keep a secret from a curious Ford.

Ford watches Stan. He watches Stan in class, studiously copying Ford's work in his clumsy scrawl. He watches Stan slink behind the school during lunch to loiter with Crampelter and his peons. The sight makes Ford burn, but he catalogues and observes. Stan is leaning against a wall, loose with a cigarette between his lips, inhaling deeply and then letting the smoke go. Ford can't hear what they are saying, he can only hear the braying laughs that echo against the brick and concrete. He watches one boy gesture at Stan and then his own face. Stan replies and Ford thinks he can see a smirk. A second boy laughs and whatever he says makes Stan slump and turn his body away. The peons laugh as Stan sucks the rest of the cigarette into his mouth, the tip glowing bright and furious like a dying sun. He drops the butt and stomps on it harder than necessary. Ford notes the arrival of Crampelter himself is met with whistles and hoots, the boy is disheveled and it is clear some moronic girl has let him use her. He hopes the brute used a condom, but he doubts it. The bell rings, signaling the end of lunch and the gang slowly, slowly begins to shift and move. They dissipate like smoke and Ford is chaffing from lingering so long. Crampelter lingers and calls Stan over, leaning into his space and Ford wishes he could hear what they were saying because Stan gets stiff but nods. Crampelter laughs and walks past Stan with a slap on his ass that makes his brother jump. Stan doesn’t move for a while and by now Ford knows they will both be late for class. Ford watches his brother lift a hand to his face and rub at the wound there. Ford wants to tell him to stop, but Ford must get back to class.

Ford makes an excuse to his teacher, who accepts it with a blank, bored glance. Stan skips the rest of the day.

After a week of watching Stan, and Stan getting increasingly suspicious, Ford takes a break to compile the data he has before he confronts Stan--an agitated Stan is irrational and Ford must be completely confident and unyielding.

Stan’s acquaintanceship with Crampelter occurred suddenly and coincides with a direct drop in Stan’s mood. Ford had previously attributed the change to stress and teenage rebellion, but observing Stan’s interaction with the Crampelter gang, Ford can conclude that Stan’s membership to said gang is most likely forced. An impressive accomplishment as Stan is stubborn to the point of stupidity--Stan cannot be forced into anything, only coerced.

The reasonable conclusion is that, somehow, Crampelter has found a way to manipulate Stan and whatever it is must be impressive--Stan has very little shame and no fear of punishment.

Crampelter has very little to gain from Stan: Stan has a car and a predilection toward petty theft. Crampelter has no need for Stan’s strength, though the gang does stand to benefit scholastically through Stan’s use of Ford’s work (which explains Stan’s quiet shame whenever he returns Ford’s work). But none of that accounts for the bruises and scrapes; the slinking limp to the bathroom. It is possible that Stan still instigates Crampelter and his goons, but Stan would have more obvious injuries--more pronounced. The injuries Stan returns with nearly nightly are consistently minor.

And Crampelter’s familiar lean into Stan’s space; the slap to the ass. The heckling laughter of the gang. Ford recalls the strained voice, the limp, the obsessive showering, the scuffed and filthy knees of Stan’s jeans. Ford spends an indulgent moment skittering around the obvious answer, not to deny it, but to remain ignorant a little longer. The moment passes and the puzzle has been solved, the secret uncovered.

Whatever Crampelter is holding over Stan will be nothing compared to Ford’s righteous retribution.

 


	2. Unstoppable Force, Immobile

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stan spills the beans and Ford tries to pick them up.

Ford is patient. He can't afford to be rash when he knows how volatile Stan will be once they have this conversation.

Stan is hard to pin down long enough to talk to. He is either at the gym or running with Crampelter’s gang when he isn't in class and this is a conversation Ford wants to have privately. In the time he waits, Ford decides to research how to approach a person who has been...in Stan’s situation. There is a pitiful amount of literature, mostly pamphlets with health centers and numbers to call for help. After reading the same leaflet three times with no newfound knowledge or enlightenment, Ford abandons his research altogether, the librarian was starting to give him concerned looks anyway.

It's nearly two weeks after Ford's revelation when Stan stumbles in through the window, unsteady and swaying, his eyes glassy in the ambient light from the street. A draft blows in and pulls the stench of cigarettes and alcohol from Stan’s stained clothes, the smell makes Ford's gut churn. He takes a moment to take in the new rip at the knee of Stan’s jeans, the raw scrapes on his elbows and forearms. The way Stan is scratching furiously at his stitches while he tries to stagger to the bathroom.

This is not how Ford wanted to do this, but an inebriated Stan might be a more pliable one. He stands from his desk and easily overtakes his brother’s careful shuffle and quietly locks the door. Ford watches with wary anticipation as Stan blinks at the door, then Ford, brows furrowing. He narrows his eyes at Ford and reaches out to unlock the door, but fumbles when he finds Ford's hand still rests on the lock. Irritation takes place of the muddled inebriation.

“The fuck, S’xer?” Stan slurs, so lost and confused.

(And Ford realizes with sudden, obvious clarity that he is the older sibling. Stan is the shield and sword, the protector, the fighter, but who has protected Stan? Ford thinks, recalls those moments of fear and hurt, and realizes that it has always been Stan, alone, standing before adversity, standing before  _ Ford _ . There is a part of Ford that whimpers as that thought hits like a tarred lash, digging into his heart and pulling some of his composure out with it.)

“S’xer?” Stan mumbles, his soft, kind face concerned as Ford stares silent and conflicted at the gash across his sweet mouth (a mouth that looks so good pulled into a smile so wide his gums gleam pink and exposed). Ford shakes his head, trying to shake the incriminating thought, the guilt. He steels himself against Stan’s booze-slacked, flushed face.

“Stanley, could you please sit down?” Ford tries for gentle and firm but his voice wavers and falls into a soft plea. Stan immediately tenses, a nervousness creeping into his posture; the defensive curl Ford has begun to loathe so much. Stan looks to the desk and then the door to Ford’s hand on the lock. Where Stan’s hand is still resting, hot and damp as the alcohol dilates his blood vessels, pushing more blood and heat into every extremity. Stan wrenches the hand away, shoving it into his pocket while his other hand hangs in a tense fist, knuckles twitching against the urge to fidget. (Filbrick can’t stand fidgeting.) Ford’s hand feels especially cold with Stan’s sweat cooling on his skin. It feels intimate and nearly obscene.

“Need shower, F’rd.” Stan isn’t looking at him and it’s starting to grate on Ford’s nerves. The uncharacteristic docility is more damning than the wound across his face.

“You can shower after we talk, Stanley.” Ford’s tone is firm and he even points to the bed, wordlessly telling Stan to sit. That sets a spark in Stan’s eyes, a sneer curling his broken lip.

“Unlock the fuckin’ door, Stanf’rd.” Even with the slur, Stan sounds intimidating and dangerous. But, his eyes are unfocused and he is squinting too hard, trying to focus in the gloom of the dark bedroom. He is a dangerous, cornered beast but Ford finds that he is unafraid. He is emboldened.

“We need to talk.” Ford says again, shifting so that it’s his body blocking the door. Stan follows the movement, sneer twisting further until his eyes are fever bright and burning into Ford’s.

“Shu’ the f’ck up, F’rd.” Stan growls, his inebriation exaggerating the slur his stitched, distorted lips give him. Both fists are bared, his body is settling into the tense-loose stance that comes before a street fight. Stan is scared, Ford realizes. Stan is trapped and hurt and drunk. He is powerless and afraid. It is this thought that makes Ford take the step forward, into Stan’s space. He puts a steadying hand on Stan’s shoulder, schools his face into patient empathy.

“I know, Stanley.” He says, voice laden with meaning. He meets Stan’s eyes when they flit to his face in confusion, then creeping terror. Stan roughly shoves him off.

“F’ck off.” He snarls and makes for the door, fumbling with the lock now that his unsteady hands are shaking further. Ford grabs his shoulder again, yanking him away from the door.

“I know you’re scared--”

“F’ck you!” Stan snarls, rounding fully on Ford; large, blunt hands grab Ford by the shirt and then throw him. Ford stumbles back until he trips and falls, arms pinwheeling uselessly as gravity drags him down to hit something hard and sharp. He feels his brain blank out and the stillness is a novelty he has never experienced--that vague whiteness like static. Then he feels a sharp pain that makes his body tense and then curl, hands flying to ward off anymore assaults. His hands are too skittish of the pain to land fully on the tacky, wetness that is starting to stick to his hair, but they hover near and above. He hears a stumble of movement and remembers, yes, Stan. Stan needs help. He pushes himself up, one hand hovering around his skull, the other is a pillar in the earth, keeping him upright. He feels hot, damp hands cup his face, pulling his head forward and side to side.

“Shi’, F’rd, ‘m s’rry, di’n’ mean it.” Stan is babbling, slurred and desperate and this is the closest he has been to his brother in a very long time. His head still throbs but he knows the wound is superficial. One of Stan’s hands cards through his hair with booze-clumsy fingers and Ford whines when Stan tugs the hair close to the cut. Stan murmurs something like an apology or placation and Ford knows that in the dark, in Stan’s state, there is no way Stan could take stock of any damage done on Ford’s scalp and skull. But Stan, the lovable oaf, is trying. Ford let’s him fret over the wound, still bleeding freely as head wounds are wont to do. He watches Stan’s face, relaxed with alcohol and concern, eyes soft and open. His lip are slacked, his breath is rancid with smoke and cheap liquor. The gash, half healed save the places Stan has rubbed raw again, is ugly and Ford makes a sound like a whimper. Stan apologizes, mistaking the sound for the physical discomfort of his head as opposed to the emotional turbulence of his heart. Ford looks at those lips, whispering apologies and platitudes and Ford’s scrambled mind stills right before it erupts.

Ford is grabbing Stan by the shirt, it's awkward with the tight stretch of the material over Stan’s broad, soft chest. He settles with one hand grabbing a shoulder, the other cupping Stan’s neck and rushing forward too fast and smashing their faces together. Stan makes a sound like a pained groan as Ford opens his mouth and licks the shock-slack mouth. Stan shoves him back and Ford falls to the floor again, landing on his elbows in a painful jar. He looks up at Stan--wide-eyed, shocked Stan, hand cupping his mouth that’s--it’s bleeding. Yes, Ford can taste a hint of iron on his own lips and realizes he must have split Stan’s wound open with the impact of his kiss. Ford doesn’t move, shell shocked and terrified. Stan looks down at him, then flees, fumbling with the door and then slamming it shut. Ford hears the distant chastisement from Mom about slamming doors. Ford pulls himself off the floor, crawls up into his bed, and lies down to stare at the ceiling, scabbing headwound be damned. He tries to think past the throbbing like a tide that spreads and retracts in his skull, but all that can slip between the tidal waves of pain is the look of Stan’s shocked face. Was that disgust, fear? Why had he done that? How could he be so stupid? He was supposed to protect his little brother and instead he had--had _ assaulted _ him. Ford is ashamed to feel tears pricking at his eyes, his throat tightens and he tries not to sob. Tears spill over anyway as he floats between misery and numbing cold. He’ll feel himself drift and then jolt back to the reality where he ruined everything in time with the rattle of the shower pipes.

Ford is just starting to fall, prickling emotions and throbbing headache taking turns to exhaust him. He feels heavy and cold and sick when the door to the bedroom opens. Ford goes rigid, shallowing his breathing, unconsciously trying to become a small, invisible threat. He hears Stan pitter around, shuffling and grunting. Stan finally stills and Ford feels a tension, his muscles are tightening as if electrocuted, as if ready to spring from danger. He hears Stan let out a long, hard breath and those heavy, shuffling feet get closer until he is sure Stan is beside the bed, just standing there. Ford feels more tears leak onto his cheeks.

The entire bed frame shakes as clumsy, strong hands wrench against the ladder. Ford has a single moment to flail away and against the wall before Stan’s focused, hard eyes crest the mattress and glare at the bedsheets. He is a hulking, unsteady weight that makes the bed quake and Ford is sure that his brother is facing his fear of heights to murder Ford, to remove the disfigured blight from his life. Instead, Stan eventually flops onto the mattress and wiggles upright. His face would be resolute if not for the drunken squint--the alcohol exasperating his visual impairment (and yet Stan refuses to wear glasses). It comes out as a skeptical pout that Ford find painfully endearing. Stan sways once on his knees before:

“Ya kissed me.” His slur has cleared a bit, he is more coherent. They should not be having this conversation right now. “I didn’t...” Stan’s voice falters, near cracks, before his face twists into fury. This, Ford thinks, is when he dies. “I don’t need yer pity.” Stan finally spits. He is somehow looming; his wide shoulders and gruff voice make him large and frightening. Ford stalls over the words; the tone he expected, not the words.

“Pity?” He says, dumbly. Stan’s face twists and Ford worries he will tear his stitches.

“Ya really think I’m stupid, huh?” Stan growls and Ford is so lost, has never been this confused.

“What?”

“I ain’t that stupid, Sixer.” Stan shuffles into Ford’s space and Ford has many conflicting feelings about that. “Ain’t no one gonna want my ugly mug.” He makes a sound too dreadful to be a laugh. “Ya think ya can try and get me ta talk with--” Stan cuts himself off with a snarl, running a hand through his damp hair, tugging at it roughly. Ford restrains himself from reaching out to grab that hand. Stan huffs and pins Ford with a glare. “Just lay off it, Ford.” His voice is heavy. Ford hates it.

“I know about Crampelter.” Ford says instead of apologizing, of placating, of backing down. He is cornered by a strong, frightened, furious Stan. But, Ford sees a wound swelling and swelling and the pressure on his brother is overwhelming. Sometimes, a wound must be lanced and sometimes that hurts. Ford is prepared to hurt for his brother.

Stan pales, gets so white that Ford is afraid he will faint. Ford watches as Stan tries to fight the panic, tries to cling to defensive anger but Ford has broken his brother and he watches with muted horror has Stan’s breath quickens and his eyes glaze over. It’s awkward but Ford shuffles over on his knees until he can gently hold Stan’s face in his hands.

“Stan?” He whispers and his voice is raspy and Stan’s face is too cold. Stan keeps hyperventilating, shivering. “Stanley, please, I’m sorry.” Stan doesn’t react save to wince. “Stan, you’re scaring me.” Ford says, a desperate edge is creeping into his voice, the agonizing dread curling up from his stomach like inky smog to color his words. Stan’s eyes focus, just slightly, and roll to meet Ford’s. It’s almost a relief until:

“Don’t tell Stan.” Stan says, desperate and pleading and terrified. Ford freezes, the pain of his brother’s terror becomes something else--a sharp, cold weight that makes him go flat (like Filbrick, is this how Filbrick feels?)

“What do you mean?” His voice is too reasonable, too calm. It reveals nothing of his turmoil. He doesn’t know what’s happening. Stan is not doing what he was supposed to--Stan was supposed to be angry or scared and Ford was supposed to shout or soothe. Nowhere in his mind did Ford expect this. It is either a very good con or a terrifying reality. Ford does not know which he prefers.

“Stan doesn’t want you to know, please don’t tell him.” Stan is saying and his face is so afraid and so soft, so fucking  _ young _ . Ford feels sick.

“What happened to you--to Stan?” Ford feels himself ask and his head is so light and warm, his stomach flips at the height his mind is stretching to. Stan shakes his head. Ford frowns, still distantly numb and viscerally present. It is an unnerving sensation. “I need to know.” Ford doesn’t recognize the firm, even voice leaving his mouth. Stan shudders and tries to shrink and it’s so wrong, wrong,  _ wrong _ .

“He’ll be mad.” Stan says, so small, so helpless. Ford fights the snarl, the fury. He has never been so angry.

“Let me handle that.” And Ford opens his arms and Stan, or the thing Stan has become, falls into his arms, soft and shivering. “Please trust me.” Ford murmurs into Stan’s damp hair as he feels Stan tremble. They are silent as Ford tries not to let his sick terror and roiling fury overtake him. This is his little brother, his baby brother; he can be strong just this once. Stan finally speaks.

“He said he liked our mouth the best.” Ford feels something like magma in his chest and throat. His teeth grind together and he feels as if he can crush diamonds.

“Is that why yo--Stan hurt himself?” Ford keeps his voice even, he channels all of what Filbrick taught him. Stan shudders, does nothing but shudder and shake. Then Stan nods, slowly.

“It isn’t so bad when they can’t look at us.” Stan says and Ford’s insides cannot coil further. He feels a cool rage like lead and lightning. Ford almost cracks his teeth.

“How long?” He asks, he doesn’t want to know, but Stan, or the thing wearing Stan will tell him.

“Since summer.” Stan murmurs to his chest, deciding that nuzzling into Ford’s nightshirt is preferable to gazing at the wall over his shoulder. Ford feels his hands spasm and then curl into Stan’s undershirt, fisting the material as he hugs his brother tighter. His composure cracks just enough to spill:

“Why?” Ford whispers, a wounded note creeping in. Stan just shakes his head again. “What’s so terrible that you keep going back?” Ford needs to know, he needs to tell Stan that whatever terrible thing Crampelter holds over him is not worth this suffering.

“Don’ wanna be a fagg’t.” Stan mumbles into Ford's chest and. Oh.

“Stan, you’re not--”

“But I am!” Stan draws back to stare at Ford, face red and splotchy, tears catching on the wound. He's grabbing Ford's shirt, working himself up again. “No one can know!”

“Stan, it's okay.” Ford slides his hands to catch Stan’s face again, rubbing the tears gently away. Stan shakes his head.

“Oh, God, Ford, what if Pops finds out?” Ford gently draws Stan closer to him, resting their foreheads together.

“It'll be okay.” He whispers in the space between them, feeling each desperate hitch of Stan’s breath against his lips. They stay like that, close and intimate, until Stan’s head slumps to Ford’s shoulder and Ford realizes that he has fallen asleep. Ford lays them both down on the bed, curling around his brother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All comments and criticism welcome and encouraged. 
> 
> Stan, get help. 
> 
> I don't LIKE to hurt Stan it just HAPPENS.


	3. Silent Vengance, Enacted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ford protects his little brother.

Ford is jarred awake by Stan kicking him in the shin while groaning like a dying whale.

“The fuck ya doing in my bed, Ford?” Stan glares at him from the pillow before groaning again. Ford rubs his face and gropes around the bed until he finds his glasses. They’re smudged with oils and dirt but he can see Stan’s face a little better. His eyes are bloodshot, his face is pale and he looks absolutely miserable. Ford sighs.

“I take it you don’t remember much from last night?” Ford sits against the wall and Stan seems to recognize that he is in Ford’s bed if his concerned frown is anything to go by.

“I think I remember tellin’ ya to keep yer shit outta my business.” Stan pushes himself up, catching sight of the floor. He shudders and groans again, grinding the heel of his palm into his eye. “The fuck am I doin’ in yer bed?” Stan looks blearily at him, eyes narrowed against the hangover. Then Stan’s face goes slack with surprise. “Shit, Ford, are ya bleeding?” Ford looks at the pillow where, yes, he has forgotten about the cut under his hair. Stan shuffles close, grabbing Ford’s face, squishing his glasses into his cheeks. “Fuck, Sixer, why didn’t ya get this cleaned up?” Stan’s hands are thick and rough as he prods the wound, displacing crusted blood. Ford makes a face and Stan huffs something almost like a laugh.

“I would have, but some drunken fool fell asleep on me.” Ford shoves at Stan’s chest. Stan frowns again.

“Yeah, what the fuck?” Ford shrugs.

“You wanted to talk.” Ford says, not looking at Stan. Stan narrows his eyes.

“Bullshit, yer lying.” Stan leans into Ford’s space and Ford leans away.

“I need to clean my hair.” Ford tries to wiggle around Stan, but Stan doesn’t move, instead grabbing Ford’s arm.

“Ford, the fuck am I doing in yer bed?” Stan growls and when Ford chances a look at his face, Stan looks suspicious, angry, and just a little unsure. Ford bites his lip and swallows. He does not want to tell Stan about last night.

“You...were upset.” Ford says carefully. Stan’s hand tightens and Ford winces.

“Yeah?”

“You wanted to talk to me but I was trying to sleep.” Ford looks at the sheets, avoiding Stan’s suspicion. “So you came up here and passed out.” The hand on his arm gives a sharp tug.

“Ford.” Stan pulls again and Ford finally looks at him, eyes flighty. Stan’s face is serious if strained. “Ford, did ya kiss me last night?” Stan’s voice is frighteningly controlled. Ford shivers and says nothing, knowing he’s been damned. Stan’s face spasms, contorts into something ugly, then falls into horror, shaking Ford by arm. “Shit, Ford, we didn't do nothin’, right? Ya gotta tell me.” Ford pales and then blushes.

“What, no, why would you even--no!” Ford stammers out in a rush and Stan’s whole body deflates.

“Thank fuck.” The hand on Ford’s arm slacks but doesn’t let go.

“...Um, Stan? I need to,” Ford gestures to his head.

“Oh, uh, yeah. Just gotta.” Stan looks at the ladder and pales.

“...Do you want me to go first?” Ford asks, tugging at his arm. Stan bristles, shuffling to the edge.

“No! It’s fine.” He stares at the ladder. He doesn’t move.

“It might help if you go down backward?” Ford offers. Stan glares at him before turning around and slowly, with shaking hands, he descends the few rungs of the ladder and lands safely on the floor. Ford feels that exasperated fondness again before he follows Stan down. They stand in awkward silence for a moment. Then Stan huffs.

“Was it good?” He shoots Ford a crooked smile that is distorted by the gash on his face. Ford just stares at him, dumbly, and Stan rolls his eyes.

“The kiss, Poindexter. Any good?” Stan’s a little tight around the eyes. Ford blinks a few times, feeling his face flush.

“Oh, uh, no. I uh, you kinda. Bled.” Ford gestures to his face and Stan’s smile falls, his expression darkening. “Sorry.” Ford adds.

“Yeah,” Stan huffs, fingering the wound. “Guess I can’t really get neckin’ with this mug.” Stan’s smile is bitter and made uglier by the tugging of the stitches. Ford frows.

“You only need to be gentle.” Ford says and Stan gives him an inscrutable look, Ford’s face flushing further as a tension creeps into the room. Stan licks his lips, tonguing at the gash.

“Ya really--” The door opens.

“Babies its time ta get up, ya gonna miss breakfa--sweet Moses, Stanford, what happened to ya?”

Mom fusses over Ford’s head, tutting and poking and enlisting Stan to fetch the peroxide and scissors.

“Mom, it’ll wash right out.” Ford whines as his Mom threatens him with the disinfectant.

“Stop squirmin’, honestly, between ya and ya brothah I shoulda been a nurse.” She doesn't use the scissors but the peroxide burns a bit.“And don't think I didn't see ya, Stanley, ya been pickin’ at ya face again.” She glares at Stan who has the grace to be sheepish.

“Sorry, ma.” Stan rubs the back of his neck but smiles, secretly pleased by her concern. She sighs, put upon and exasperated.

“Come ‘er.” She shoos Ford away from his perch on the toilet, Stan taking his place.

She clucks at the torn skin, the uneven healing. “Oughta put oven mitts on ya like when ya was a kid.” She chides as she gently dabs at the wound.

“Sorry, ma.” Stan says again. She rolls her eyes.

“Ya will be. Honestly,” She cups Stan’s cheek. “Ya have such a beautiful face, Stanley. Ya gonna ruin it if ya don't leave that mouth alone.” She says it sweetly but Ford catches the moment Stan tenses and shuts down, smiling tightly.

“Yer right, ma.” Stan nods and she pulls away with a sigh.

“Alright. Both a ya, get some breakfast.” She pushes them both out of the bathroom to clean up. Stan is looking intensely at Ford the whole way to the kitchen. Breakfast is toast and butter. They eat in silence until Stan turns a shade of green and starts puking his guts out in the trash. Mom fusses over him, but he convinces her that he just ate too fast. Ford gets him a glass of water.

Stan is still a little nauseated when he offers to drive them both to school for the first time in months. Usually, Stan has left for whatever reason and Ford treks the twenty minutes it takes to walk to school.

“Sure, okay.” Ford agrees even if the look Stan is giving him is making him nervous.

“Great, let's go.” Stan grabs his threadbare backpack and slings it over a shoulder, car keys jingling in his hand.

“Now? We still have fifteen minutes.” Ford grabs his pack, too.

“What, doncha nerd types like to be at school?” Stan calls over his shoulder, already out the door. Ford follows, ignoring the hint of trepidation in his stomach.

The drive is pleasant. The El Diablo rattles a bit and smells more like smoke than it used too, but it's warm and the radio is crooning out smooth pop numbers. The red leather is still butter soft from age and Stan’s devoted care and Ford starts to relax in the familiar safety of Stan’s car.

Ford isn't surprised when they drive past the school. He looks at Stan, sees the tense curl of his broad shoulders, the steely set of his jaw.

“Is this the part where you dump me in a ditch?” Ford asks, trying for light but sounding more anxious than he'd like.

“Shut the fuck up, Sixer.” Stan snarls and makes a sharp turn onto a service road. Ford shuts up.

Eventually, Stan finds a good place to pull off. He parks the car and kills the engine. He glares through the windshield at nothing as Ford waits for whatever is going to happen next in tense silence.

“Fuck!” Stan screams, bringing both fists down on the steering wheel and the dashboard, again and again, setting off the horn and shaking the El Diablo’s chassis as he shouts and swears. “Fucking, fuck, fuck, fuck! Ya couldn't just mind yer own fuckin’ business, could ya, asshole? Had to go diggin’ and--fuck!” Ford scrambles to the door and tries to open it, to escape this enclosed space filling with Stan’s wrath. Stan snatches Ford's arm and pulls him roughly to the center console.

“Stan, please, I--” Ford tries to pull his hand free, pushing at Stan’s thick arm to no effect.

“Shut up! Just shut the fuck up, Stanford!” Stan yanks his arm again and Ford knows he'll bruise. “Do ya have any idea what ya done, genius?”

“I'm sorry, please, just--”

“Ya don't know shit! Yer so stuck in that big nerd brain ya don't even think about nobody else!” Stan releases Ford's arm and he quickly scurries back against the door, holding his arm to his chest. Stan slams his whole body into the steering column one, two, three more times. His hands are red and starting to bruise, a few splotches bloom across his face from the contact with the wheel. Ford just stays still, breathing too fast, and he doesn't realize he's crying until his face starts to itch. Stan pants in the silence, swearing softly. But the worst of his rage has passed.

“What’d I say last night?” Stan asks, voice restrained but clipped and furious. When Ford goes to shake his head Stan slams a fist into the dashboard. “Fucking answer me!” Ford flinches and swallows thickly.

“Y--you. You said...Crampelter--” Stan swears viciously.

“What about ‘im?” Stan’s face is thunderous but contained and Ford is reminded of the eye of a storm.

“Nothing much, I swear, just that. Thing he said. About your...mouth.” Ford stumbles and stalls through his words, dropping into a whisper and cringing against the door. Stan has wrapped his hands around the steering wheel, the knuckles are white and his arms are trembling in little, aborted twitches.Then Stan wrenches the car door open, stumbles a few steps before he collapses and starts vomiting. Ford hesitates before he is by his brother’s side, watching Stan void the contents of his stomach--mostly water and finally bile as he dry heaves hard enough to make tears form at the corners of his eyes. Ford kneels by his brother and puts a hesitant hand on his shoulder. Stan flinches like he’s been burned.

“Don’t tou---ugh.” Stan retches again as his stomach spasms to remove nothing; Stan is completely empty. Ford leans back on his heels before standing and returning to the car. He pops the trunk and starts to dig around, finding a few cans of beer. He grabs one with distaste and returns to where Stan is breathing hard and shaking on the ground over a gritty puddle of stomach acid and bile. Ford holds out the can to Stan who takes a long moment to even notice him.

“You need to rehydrate. Despite the presence of alcohol, most malt beverages contain sufficient amounts of salts and electrolytes to hydrate the body.” Ford says and Stan finally stands with a grunt, snatching the can and popping it open with a hiss and some of the frothy head rises up and over the lip of the can.

“Ya coulda just said I needed ta drink somethin’.” He grumbles, taking a first, large gulp, swishing it around his mouth and spitting it out again. He does that another time before he tilts the can back and chugs it. Ford guiltily watches the bob of his throat, a little slicked with sweat. Stan crunches the can in a fist and then throws it carelessly to the side. Ford frowns a little at that. Stan shoves his hands into his pockets and Ford rubs his sore arm. Ford wonders if this is the return of the storm or if it has passed. Stan seems to wonder the same thing. “Let’s get ya ta school, Poindexter. Teacher’s’ll think I kidnapped ya or some shit.” Stan claps Ford on the back as he moves to start the El Diablo again. Ford slowly follows him. The drive back to school is too exhausted to be tense. There are other students milling around the parking lot, gathering into clumps like water droplets and moving into the school.

“Don’t...don’t see Crampelter.” Ford says to the floor of the car. He hears Stan shift and huff. “Look, Stan, anything he say’s he’ll do, it isn’t--”

“Shut up.” Stan snaps and Ford leans into the car door, looking at his brother sideways. Stan is glaring at him. “I’ve handled him up ta now, I don’t need yer help or ya pity.” And it sounds so similar to what Stan told him last night when he was drunk and vulnerable.

“There’s nothing?” Ford tries, one last time. Stan snorts and turns an ugly sneer at Ford.

“So long as that bastard’s kickin’ I’m fucked.” Stan chuckles. “Now, get yer ass ta school. And forget this shit.” Stan shoves Ford against the door for emphasis and Ford climbs out of the car with a grimace.

“Stan--” But Stan’s slammed the door behind him and is already backing away. Ford stands a moment, numb, before he turns and goes to class, thinking.

It’s easy to acquire pure potassium or aluminium powder. All Ford needs to do is ask the chemistry teacher for it and he’d eagerly give it over. But that’s obvious and Ford needs to be careful. Fortunately, Ford often stays after hours at school. He waits until the chemistry room is empty before breaking the lock on the cabinet that contains the volatile elements in convenient tubes. He selects potassium and aluminium powders, and a few other random elements he has no need for. He also digs through the teacher’s desk for anything remotely valuable, finds nothing, and feels satisfied that he has made a sufficiently incriminating scene.

The sodium hydroxide is easier to acquire, he merely looks under the sink in the kitchen and pours the white powder into a ceramic mug.

He carefully mixes the chemicals into a caustic and dangerous powder. It’s easy to do so in private as Stan is no doubt being used by Crampelter and his parents are too busy to bother their son while he’s “studying.” He acquires a nondescript envelope and liberally applies vanilla to it to cover any of the chemical scents coming from the powder. He carefully pens a brief, simpering letter (it takes many attempts, he is disgusted with every pen stroke):

“I think you’re hot.”

It’s ridiculous but it should do to distract the brute. When he seals the envelope he rigs it with a piece of floss to rip completely open, spilling the powder on Crampelter’s hands and body.

Ford stays late again to slip it into Crampelter’s locker and waits.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do not EVER do what Ford did. Those substances are EXTREMELY dangerous you can and will hurt yourself.
> 
> Stan, get help.  
> Ford, you stop that.
> 
> Glass of water cameo.


	4. Quiet Fury, Manifested

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things heat up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is, the NSFW. Enjoy?

Ford lingers in the hallways, watching Crampelter and his gang (and Stan, smirking with the rest, winking at the girls that titter past). The first class has yet to start and Ford leans against the wall by a doorway, pretending to wait for a class to start. As expected, Crampelter smirks at the letter, holds it up victoriously and his peons crow and jeer. The brute opens the letter with a slow and dramatic flourish. And the envelope breaks and the powder puffs into the air, clinging to his hands, arms, torso, and face. He coughs and sneezes and a few of his companions cough as well. Crampelter swears and throws the letter to the ground. Stan keeps back, facade dropping when he smirks as Crampelter’s swearing intensifies as the powder begins to itch.

“You gotta wash it off, man, before it gets bad.” Someone says and Ford suppresses the smile that lights in his eyes. Crampelter shuffles off to the bathroom, grumbling and scratching as the powder begins to take effect.

Ford waits. The bell rings to call the students to class and Ford makes his way to his to his class and, yes, there.

Crampelter’s scream has students and teachers running into the hall and toward the sound as he keeps screaming and screaming. Teachers bark at the students to keep back as they storm the bathroom. The screaming continues and a few other shouts join in.

“Water, we need water!”

“Moron, this is chemical fire, we need to smother it.”

It is utter chaos as a teacher emerges and runs to the nearest phone, calling for an ambulance. The students are shouted at and herded back to their classrooms and Ford goes willingly though he wishes he could have seen the moment the powder met water. He hopes it was enough to make the pink fire of the exothermic reaction flare like a brand. He hopes Crampelter is maimed.

On his way back to class he sees the “love note.”

“I think you’re hot.”

Ford allows himself a smirk. Hot enough to burn.

School is let out early so that the police can investigate the assault without interruption. Without Crampelter to steal his time, Stan is free to drive both himself and Ford home. Filbrick merely grunts a curious noise at them and Ford gives a brief explanation and they’re sent on their way. Mom is at a friend’s house, swapping tales and being general gossips. They walk in silence to their room and when Ford sets down his backpack against the wall, he hears the lock on the door engage with a click. Ford doesn’t turn around, just waits for the fallout. There’s a possibility that Stan has locked the door to start shouting uninterrupted, which is probable. Ford hears Stan kick off his shoes and shuffle over to Ford, around Ford, stand in front of Ford.

“Ford?” Stan asks, his voice low and Ford represses a shiver, trying to remain relaxed and blameless. He hms in response, doesn’t quite look at Stan’s face. “Was that you?” Stan is whispering the question, moving into Ford’s space. Ford fights the urge to step back.

“Of course, not, Stan. That would be illegal.” He says, calmly. He hears Stan inhale sharply.

“That’s so fucking hot.” He breathes and Ford does look at him now and sees that Stan’s pupils are blown wide and face flushed with arousal. He’s looking at Ford with a kind of awe, as if Ford has admitted to hanging the moon in the sky, and Ford’s face heats up in return.

“I--what?” Ford stammers, shocked, and Stan grabs his face and kisses him. To his unending horror Ford squeaks. Like a mouse. And then Stan is laughing.

“Holy shit!” Stan crows; he hasn’t let go of Ford’s face but his head is thrown back as he guffaws to the ceiling. Ford blushes further and retaliates by trying to kiss back. He remembers to aim away from the cut on Stan’s lip and ends up placing a sloppy, wet kiss on Stan’s cheek. And Stan just laughs harder.

“Y-you knucklehead!” Ford tries to shove Stan away but Stan pulls Ford back in, chuckling into the space between them and carefully kisses him. It’s chaste at first, just closed mouth kisses that make Ford’s chest seize. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands as they twitch uselessly against his thighs. He slowly lifts them to rest on Stan’s shoulders. Stan hms and takes that as a cue to lick at the seam of Ford’s lips until Ford lets his mouth fall slack and he gasps as Stan’s tongue drags gently against the hard palate on the roof of his mouth.

“Gently.” Ford whispers and gasps when Stan pulls back. Stan huffs, but he goes slow and sweet.

Kissing is surreal, Stan’s tongue feels slick and rough in turns, and even though Ford knows they have similar body temperatures, Stan’s tongue feels hotter than his. Eventually, Ford starts really kissing back and soon they’re both moaning. Stan breaks the kiss to Ford’s dismay to pull aside the collar of his button up and then latch onto his neck like a lamprey. Ford slaps a hand over his mouth to smother the sound he makes.

“Holy...did I make that noise?” Ford is breathless and Stan releases his neck and licks his lips, a salacious smirk and throaty chuckle making Ford’s heart skip.

“Yup. And I’m gonna wring so many more outta ya.” He leans in to kiss Ford again and then moves to the other side of his neck to do the same thing. Between the words and the action Ford feels another one of those noises escape him. Stan unbuttons the top button of Ford’s shirt and then the second. Ford’s hands are clinging to Stan, terrified and elated when Stan begins to slowly run his marred lips over Ford’s clavicle. Ford can’t believe how noisy he is but Stan seems to love it, deciding to bite.

“Ah!” Ford’s whole body trembles at the sensation. Stan’s broad, warm hands have settled on one hip and on Ford’s chest, over his heart. Stan can probably feel, if not hear, Ford’s heart thundering away like a trapped bird and, more mortifying, his nipples hardening. Stan brushes his palm over the nubs and Ford can feel the smirk against his skin as Stan moves both hands to lightly circle Ford’s nipples, the rough fabric of the shirt contrasting with the gentle pressure. Stan does this until Ford’s mouth is slack and he’s panting high and desperate moans. Stan makes his way down the line of buttons, muttering. “Too many damn buttons.”Once Ford is divested of his shirt Stan pushes Ford backward until he tumbles into Stan’s mattress, shoulders hitting the wall.

“Lay down,” Stan says with an authority Ford didn’t know he wanted and he wiggles around until he’s staring at the wood slats supporting the upper bunk. He feels the mattress dip as Stan leans one knee next to Ford’s hip before swinging the other until he’s straddling him. Ford can’t help the hitch as his breathing increases. He doesn’t realize he’s closed his eyes until he opens them and sees Stan looming above him. The afternoon light renders him in soft, warm tones, like a blanket fresh from the dryer. But his predatory smirk with that scarring makes a primal part of Ford shiver in fear.

“Stan, are you sure?” Ford gasps when Stan lets his hips fall and grind into Ford’s and, oh, Ford arches into it, head thrown back.

“Ya tell me, genius.” Stan latches on that exposed neck and sucks and nibbles in a way that has Ford thrusting into Stan’s hips against his will but he is gone, just from kissing. Stan pulls back and Ford feels so cold from the spit and lack of warm mouth. He whines, beyond words, staring at Stan with stupid adoration and awe. Stan leans back, catches Ford’s look, and almost gets bashful. He overcomes this by grabbing Ford’s dick through his slacks and Ford near shouts.

“Sh.” Stan soothes, moving lower to press against the space where Ford’s balls are. Ford whines, twitches and writhes. “Sh.” Stan whispers against his hip. Ford just suppresses a wail, biting it back until it becomes a low keen.

“Stan, please.” And Ford isn’t sure what he’s begging for, but he needs and Stan seems to know because he kisses the place where Ford’s dick is straining against his zipper.

“I gotcha, Sixer.” Stan murmurs, one hand resting on Ford’s hip and the other is against the tongue of Ford’s zipper.

Stan quickly unzips and removes Ford’s slacks and Ford feels filthy when he lifts his hips to help. Stan is more playful with his boxers, running a finger up the inner seams and ghosting over the aching erection peeking through. Ford whines and pants, his eyes rolling and head thrashing from one side to another. Ford thinks, for one horrifying moment, that he is going to cum in his boxers like a child.

“Stan.” He puts as much as he can into that name, that request. Stan gets it and his face softens into a kind of fondness.

“Yeah, I gotcha,” he says and pulls down Ford’s boxers and the air is cold against Ford’s dick. Stan kisses Ford’s stomach and it twitches. He moves lower and Ford surprises himself with:

“No.” He looks down, a fucking mistake because Stan’s face between his legs is like a shot of whiskey that curls hotly in his gut. “Your stitches.” Ford mumbles, embarrassed and Stan grimaces.

“Ugly, huh?” Stan says and Ford reaches down to smack him lightly.

“No, knucklehead.” Ford glares at Stan, Stan between his legs. “You’re going to rip your stitches.” Stan blushes and Ford feels boldened by the sight. “I’d rather kiss you.” He says even as his dick screams in betrayal. Instead of sucking Ford’s dick or kissing him senseless, Stan leans back and starts removing his clothes. The undershirt he wears like a shirt. And then the jeans. He hesitates, then removes his boxers, letting his red, wet dick stand freely. Ford stares; he’s never seen a penis besides his own and he take a clinical moment to catalogue the differences.

There aren't that many. Both are circumcised, swelling and red at the tips, Stan is leaking more than Ford. Stan’s dick is thick like the rest of him while Ford has more length.

“...a picture’ll last longer.” Stan mutters and Ford blushes to his ears as he looks back at Stan, who looks unsure, kneeling between Ford's legs. Ford reaches a hand forward and smiles when Stan takes it, shuffling into his space.

“Why would I want a picture when I have the real thing right here?” Ford murmurs and leans forward and kisses Stan softly, pecking gently at the healing wound. Stan blushes at the attention, cocky facade cracking.

“Fuck,” Stan breathes, running his free hand up Ford's flank in a tease that makes Ford sigh, brushing his cheek against Stan’s rougher, more stubbled one, his skin interspersed with pimples and acne scars. Stan pulls his hand free from Ford's, to run his palms up Ford's back to tangle in his hair, tugging, exposing Ford's neck to nibble. “Gonna mark you up,” he growls and Ford moans, hips twitching. “Gonna have ta wear ya stupid sweaters,” Stan punctuates this with a hard bite at Ford's trapezius and Ford shouts. “Unless ya want everyone to know.” Stan licks at the bite and then leans back brushing a thick finger over the mark, admiring his handy work. Ford shudders and whines, hands clenched around Stan’s upper arms.

“Stan,” Ford whines, breathless from panting and Stan gently pushes him into the mattress and arranges them so that their bare hips are flush, precum smearing along stomachs and the dry-wet-hot is overwhelming. Ford tries to thrust into that friction but can only writhe as Stan leans on his elbows, smirking down at him.

“So fuckin’ easy,” he chuckles and grinds down. Ford gasps and then smacks Stan’s shoulder with a scowl. “Not a bad thing,” Stan grabs one of Ford's hands and sucks two of his fingers into his mouth making Ford squeak. Stan smirks while laving Ford's fingers, moving between them and under the nails as he grinds their dicks somewhat together. Ford moans and lets his head fall back on the pillow, eyes closed as he luxuriates in how the rough hair on Stan’s stomach drags against his dick in contrast to the softness of the belly; the feeling of Stan blowing his fingers until he's a mess, sucking in another finger before Ford pushes his head gently.

“S-stitches.” Stan rolls his eyes and pulls off with a final lick before getting a mischievous glint in his eye and rubbing his spit slick chin on Ford's face. “Gross!” Stan laughs as Ford scrubs at his face. Stan leans back, one hand on Ford's chest, scratching at his meager chest hair. He grabs Ford's wet hand and intertwines their fingers together, wrapping both their hands around their dicks and gently squeezing. Ford groans long and low. Stan chuckles and pushes his hand up Ford's chest, rests his palm above his brother’s mouth.

“Lick it,” his voice is a husky command and Ford shivers before hesitantly running a tongue against Stan’s rough palm. A small, quiet groan escapes Stan as he slowly and loosely begins to jack them both, twisting at the head, decreasing pressure on the descent. Ford becomes more confident as more endorphins flood his brain, sucking Stan’s thumb into his mouth and moaning when the digit pushes against his tongue. Stan pulls out his thumb, scraping it over Ford's teeth, before offering his palm again. Ford licks and sucks at it until Stan pulls away and when Ford finally looks at his brother again he's wrecked, breath shallow and quick and blush speeding from one cheek to another.

Stan releases their dicks, their hands by now too dry and tacky. The spit slicked hand is almost cool as it wraps around Ford, thumb smearing the precum around the tip and slowly dragging down. Ford's hands grab the sheets, clawing against the sensation. Stan’s other hand rubs his stomach, slips between them to stroke his balls. Ford comes embarrassingly fast. Stan looks at him a bit stunned, at Ford's twitching dick and the puddle of cum cooling on his stomach.

“Geez, Sixer, don't ya ever jack it?” Stan shakes his head, running a hand through the cum, smearing it into Ford's chest hair.

“That's disgusting,” Ford says, a little breathless.

“S’natural.” Stan keeps one hand tangling with the mess on Ford's stomach as he licks and spits into his palm, taking himself in hand and starts pumping fast and hard, pulling hard at Ford's chest, taking a few strands of hair with it. Ford watches, enthralled, as Stan gets himself off, grunting and cussing softly, eyes screwed tight until they snap open and meet Ford's. There's a light in Stan’s eyes that Ford's never scene, a kind of manic viciousness.

“Watch me.” He says, his voice a husky growl. “Watch--shit--watch me claim ya.” Stan’s eyes are burning into him, something igniting and making his skin catch fire. He shudders, closes his eyes against the intensity, suddenly afraid. Stan snarls, the hand on his chest spasms, blunt nails dragging red marks. Ford hisses against the slight sting, eyes snapping to Stan’s and Stan looks desperate and vulnerable under his snarl. Ford circles a hand around Stan’s wrist, making Stan groan, head bowing.

“I'm watching.” Ford murmurs and Stan chokes on a noise and meets Ford's eyes again, desperate and almost scared as he cums. Stan collapses, smashing the tacky mess between them, making Ford cringe.

“Gross.” He says again, pushing lightly at Stan’s shoulders. Stan starts shaking and Ford scowls until he hears the little hitches of Stan’s breath. “Stan?” Ford sets his hands on Stan’s back and feels them shake harder as Stan begins to sob. Ford doesn't know what to do so he just hugs his little brother, rubbing his back and murmuring little shushing noises.

Stan soon exhausts himself, sobs petering out into little hitches and sniffles and by now they are both disgusting between the cum, snot, sweat, and tears. Ford tries to gently nudge his brother up. Stan compromises by rolling to the side, facing the wall. Ford carefully gets out of the bed, looks at the slope of Stan’s back and the set of his shoulders. Ford drags on a set of pants and a shirt, sneaking to the bathroom to get a towel--it's too early in the day to shower. He cleans himself, and it really is disgusting, and brings the towel back to Stan, who's sitting at the edge of the bed, tapping at his face. Ford silently offers the towel. Stan takes it.

“Wasn't the sex, ya know,” he says, rubbing himself down and tossing the towel to the floor. Ford frowns at the soiled towel further soiling the floor before Stan’s words register.

“What?”

“Just got some jizz or shit in my eye, so, ya know, don't wanna hurt yer feelings or nothin’.” Stan shrugs, just sitting there with his dick out. It seems absurd and oddly charming. Ford sighs, rubs the back of his neck, thinking.

“Stan, I--”

“Do ya think it's weird?” Stan isn't looking at him but at the opposite wall, face contemplative. “Poppin’ yer cherry with yer brother, that seems weird.” Ford feels his stomach drop, a sick anxiety coils in the hollowed-out space.

“I...do you thinks it's weird?” Ford shifts from one foot to the other, tapping a nervous rhythm against his thigh. Stan smiles darkly, head bowing forward.

“I done some shit, Sixer,” Stan starts and shakes his head. “Nah, just. This is weird as fuck. You know that, right?” Stan looks at Ford, too still and calm, as if he's used all his emotions for the day. Shame creeps up Ford’s body; his hands, inexplicably, burn and he tucks them behind his back. He looks at the floor and swallows past the hard lump in his throat.

“I... yes, I understand.” He tries not to fidget, to remain still as Filbrick taught him. He hears Stan huff and the mattress creaks. Ford braces himself for whatever happens next, probably something violent, but instead he just gets grabbed and squished into Stan’s broad, hairy, naked chest. Hugging is a little different if a flaccid cock is in the picture; and how the hell does one hug one's brother with his dick out? Ford just kind of short circuits. Stan senses this and huffs again.

“Ford, relax, I'm not mad or nothin’. I thought it was obvious I liked it.” Stan chuckles. “Though, we may hafta skip town after yer stunt.” Ford pulls away, mortified.

“You think someone saw--” Ford flails, gesturing to himself, Stan, the towel on the floor. Stan has the gall to laugh.

“Hell, Ford! Nobody cares who yer knocking boots with!” Stan punches his shoulder and Ford scowls.

“I don’t see how any of this is funny, Stanley!” Ford snaps, crossing his arms. Stan rolls his shoulders and just grins at Ford, like Ford is the most hilarious person in the world, then a darkness slacks his eyes, making the smile a little vicious. Then his face falls.

“Crampelter, Poindexter. Yer the only person smart enough to pull a stunt like that.” Stan says and now Ford frowns.

“Stan, no one is going to be looking at me.”

“Uh, Sixer, this town is pretty stupid but you’re the only genius who coulda pulled that off.” Stan is giving him this bemused look and now Ford laughs.

“Stan, the police are looking for someone who would break into a cabinet and steal an amalgam of supplies as well as ransack a teacher's desk. They are looking for an idiot who got lucky. Besides,” Ford smirks, just a little at Stan’s confusion, “I’m the only reason the school still has funding. They’d rather lose one of Crampelter’s jilted lackeys than their star student.” Stan blinks at him before a slight blush rises to his cheeks.

“Ya really thought about this, huh?” Stan’s pupils are dilating, a possessive, awed look creeping across his face. Ford blushes, looks away with a shrug. Stan grabs his chin and tilts it up to meet his eyes. “Yer a criminal, Ford. Yer a criminal for me.” Ford shakes his head, a pointless but instinctive denial. Stan chuckles, a hand lands on his shoulder, thumb swiping over the bruises and bite marks. Ford looks at Stan looking at the marks on Ford’s skin and he sees: mine. It’s written in the possessive, loving gaze, and tender touches. Ford shudders and feels something he never noticed fall away like dead skin. He grabs the wrist still holding his chin, turns his face to kiss Stan’s palm before catching Stan’s eyes through his lashes.

“You and me forever, Stan,” he murmurs into Stan’s palm, kissing it reverently. “Until the end of time.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NEVER do what Ford does. It's super messed up. But go watch the videos on YouTube! Aluminum powder, sodium hydroxide, and water. And potassium in water! But, DON'T DO IT A HOME.
> 
> I don't really consider this a healthy relationship between the twins-too much unresolved trauma.

**Author's Note:**

> I consider Stan's actions to be abusive and he only gets worse, so, don't be a Stan. If you put your hands on someone because your emotions are too much for you, please consider getting help.
> 
> I also heckin' hate this. It was supposed to be 3k.


End file.
